


Please Don't Go

by Wordsy



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Blue Team, Chorus Arc, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Major Character Injury, Prompt Fill, RvB Angst War, Tuckington - Freeform, can be read as shipping or platonic, more on the hurt side
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 22:53:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,964
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11171784
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wordsy/pseuds/Wordsy
Summary: The stupid part is, Tucker’s angry at the helmet. He couldn’t leave it behind, Goddammit, he just couldn’t. Abandoning it felt like abandoning some small part of Washington. And the thought makes Tucker’s stomach churn.Or, a mission gone sideways for the prompt "Please, don't go."





	Please Don't Go

The space pirates are laughably uncoordinated. They couldn’t even get an ambush right. The Chorus patrol spotted their tracks a mile back. Everyone was already on high alert when one particularly enthusiastic pirate sprinted out of the jungle screaming, yards ahead of his comrades – ruining the surprise aspect of the surprise attack.

A pirate rushes Tucker, howling. What is it with these guys and dramatic war cries? The sim trooper sidesteps easily, tripping the pirate. Tucker's sword slices the man's weapon clean in half and the pirate doesn’t even try to retaliate. Instead, he hightails it for the cover of the jungle. There aren’t a lot of options for those retreating. The edge of a cliff runs along the other side of the clearing. Strategically, it's a good place for an ambush – if you know how to properly flank and corner the enemy. Thus far the pirates have only managed to get themselves pinned down by soldiers they’d intended to ambush.

Across the clearing, Tucker sees Caboose physically lift a merc off the ground with one hand. Holding the pirate by the back of the suit, the blue soldier hurls the man across the battlefield and straight into an approaching pirate. Caboose sees Tucker watching and waves. Meanwhile, in the other hand, Freckles takes care of another pirate coming up behind the hulking sim trooper.

Something flies by Tucker’s helmet. He tenses, the cry “Grenade!” is on the tip of his tongue. Tucker’s ready to dive for cover, when he looks down and doesn't find a grenade, but instead a regular old rock.

He spots a space pirate, cowering and only armed with another stone he’s poised to hurl.

Tucker throws out his arms. “Seriously? Seriously, man? We’re throwing rocks now?”

The merc scrapes together some courage, rears back, and chucks the stone as hard as he can. The fist-sized projectile pings harmlessly off the teal soldier’s chest plate.

Tucker looks back up at the merc. The man's off and running before the sim trooper’s even taken a step.

“Yeah, that’s right!” Tucker shouts after him. “It’s power armor, ass hat. What did you think was gunna happen–”

“Tucker!”

The sim trooper whirls because _that’s Wash screaming_ , and Tucker’s just in time to see the Freelancer tackle a space pirate to the ground. At the same time, there’s a resounding crack and a bullet whizzes past Tucker’s visor, missing him by inches.

Tucker starts to thank Wash for the quick save, only to look up and see the Freelancer on the ground. All thoughts dissolve in one electrifying moment of fear. The merc’s knee is on Wash’s chest and one hand grips the thrashing agent’s neck. Tucker’s already sprinting their direction.

The pirate raises his rifle like a club and smashes the butt of the gun down on Wash’s visor. Once. Twice. Three times and the glass doesn’t break, but it cracks. Tucker flinches as the radio picks up the static-laced thud and the sharp splintering of glass.

“Shit,” Tucker pants, slicing through another pirate blocking his path to the Freelancer.

But Tucker shouldn’t have worried. Wash pulls a knife, buries it in the man’s leg, and twists. The merc howls and Wash throws the man off him, springing to his feet to fire off a roundhouse kick. The pirate falls to his hands and knees in front of Wash. Instantly, the Freelancer has his battle rifle trained on the merc.

Tucker heaves a relieved sigh, slowing his pace. He’s only a few yards away when Wash whips his head towards Tucker, visor laced with a spider web of cracks.  
It’s a distinctly un-Washington move. Tucker realizes too late that Wash can’t see out of the patchwork of cracked glass. That he can only hear Tucker coming and is turning to check what Wash assumes is an approaching hostile. That he’s risking taking his eyes off the enemy to do so.

The pirate must realize it at the exact same time Tucker does. The merc lunges. Raising his gun like a club, the pirate heaves a mighty swing and strikes Wash across the face.

The butt of the gun smashes into visor and Tucker sees shards of airborne glass catch the light as it shatters. There’s a punched out gasp – Tucker can’t tell if it’s from him or Wash – and the radio roars with static. The agent topples backward. But he’s still got hold of his rifle, firing off a single shot that hits the pirate in the chest. It lodges in the flesh between armor plates and the man crumples. Washington crashes to the ground and tumbles.

Right over the cliff.

“No!” Tucker screams, surging forward. He leaps, throwing himself to the ground at the edge. Tucker’s whole world narrows down to that flash of gray and yellow armor, disappearing over the cliff. His arm shoots out, hand grasping for Wash’s.

Tucker’s glove catches only air.

* * *

 

The cliff isn’t a sheer drop plunging hundreds of feet to the bottom. It’s a jagged slope with plenty of rocks and boulders for Wash to hit on the way down.

At least it’s easy for the blues to rappel down.

“Wash!” Twenty feet from the bottom, Tucker unhooks the cable tethering him to the cliff top and slides the rest of the way to the ground. Sarge is yelling something about blue team only getting one dramatic injury per mission, but Tucker ignores him, skidding through gravel and sending up a cloud of dust in his wake. He drops to his knees at Wash’s side, hesitant hands fluttering over his chest.

Wash is lying on his back, head slumped against one shoulder. Rivers of blood travel across his forehead from a nasty gash on his hairline. There’s a series of scratches across his nose and cheek bones, courtesy of having his visor smashed into his face. The useless helmet’s lying a few feet away, glass shards lining the face like teeth. It must have come off during the fall.

Cupping Wash's cheek, Tucker turns the man's head towards him. With shaking hands, he feels for the pulse point on Wash's neck before patting at his face.

“Hey, Wash. Hey, come on. _Asshole_.”

“Is Agent Washington sleeping?” Tucker looks up to find Caboose has reached the bottom and is towering over them. There’s a hollow look under the blue soldier’s furrow brow. It asks a much more serious question.

“He’s alive,” Tucker breathes. “He’s alive just –” He nods to himself and leans over Wash again, slapping at his face harder this time. “Hey, _hey_. Wake the fuck up. _Wash_. Wash.”

Caboose kneels at Wash’s other side. “Wash?” He asks, voice subdued. “Are you okay? Because you have to be okay. Because we haven’t taught Freckles to play dead yet and you said we would.”

Tucker wants to punch something. But he’s distracted when the Freelancer's head twitches against the hand still cupping Wash's jaw.

 _“Holy shit,_ Wash?” Tucker takes the man’s face in both hands as Wash frowns and squeezes his eyes tight. “Come on, wake up. That’s it.”

Eyes fluttering open, Wash blinks blankly at the sky for a few moments, squinting. As Tucker leans in, though, Wash jolts and makes an uncoordinated grab for the sim trooper’s wrist.

“Whoa, whoa, dude.” He catches Wash’s hand. The Freelancer tries to jerk out of Tucker's grasp but only manages a few weak tugs, his breathing coming in uneven gasps. “It’s me. It’s me and Caboose. Tucker.”

Wash stops and sucks in a slow, shuddering breath. “…’boose an…” He tries shaking his head, but cringes, squeezing his eyes shut.

Tucker puts a steadying hand in Wash’s hair. “Whoa, no moving, okay?”

Wash’s eyes shoot open again and the idiot actually tries to sit up.

“God fucking dammit Wa–”

 _“Are you alright?”_ The Freelance blurts out, barely able to lift his head off the ground. “Are you alright, are you…?” Fighting to keep his eyes open, Wash’s gaze flickers sluggishly over to Caboose. “Caboose is– are you okay? Is everyone…?”

Caboose reaches out and pats Wash on the arm.

“Everyone is okay, Wash,” Caboose says, smiling down at the team leader. “I am okay. And Freckles is okay. And Tucker is okay. We are all okay.”

Tucker clenches his jaw. “Oh _yeah_ , you just fell off a _fucking_ cliff,” the teal soldier grits out, “but besides that everyone’s _great_.”

“Oh,” Wash says, laying back his head with a distant look in his eyes and the faintest twitch of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “That’s good.” With that, his eyes roll back in his head.

_“Wash!”_

* * *

 

Tucker doesn’t remember who handed him the helmet.

Maybe it was Sarge beside him in the warthog as the red leader pressed gauze to the gash on Wash’s head and kept a steady hand on his pulse.

Maybe it was Donut, keeping a hand on Tucker’s shoulder as the blue punched the car seat so hard his knuckles bruised.

Maybe it was Grif, after he drove them back to Armonia at breakneck speed.

Maybe it was Grey when she stopped Tucker in the hall outside the infirmary doors, asking him to let go of Wash’s gurney so the medics could wheel it inside.

It’s all Tucker’s fault. If he’d just noticed that space pirate taking aim, this all could have been avoided. But no, he was too absorbed in looking like a badass with his sword – swish, swish, stab and all that. Carolina told him in training weeks ago to be more mindful of his surroundings. He’d worked on it, he had. But when it counted?

On a bench outside the infirmary doors, Tucker leans forward and buries his face in his hands. To his left, Caboose sits on the floor hugging Freckles to his chest. He’s got a stack of coloring pages and a box of crayons in his lap. Caboose was the one to hold Wash as the reds used the warthog cables to pull them back up the cliff. The blue spent the whole ride back telling the unconscious agent about the coloring party they were going to have back in Armonia because Caboose saved the cat pictures for Wash.

Tucker fucked up. And now Wash might be dead all because Tucker was a fucking idiot.

Thinking back, Tucker might have grabbed the helmet himself. Maybe he stuffed it under one arm so he wouldn’t feel so useless as Caboose carried the Freelancer to safety. Maybe he set it beside Wash in the back seat because leaving the helmet, the colors, felt wrong. But why?

The broken helmet sits to his right. Tucker’s been alternating between refusing to look at it and checking to see it’s still there every few minutes.

Tucker raises his head to stare at the infirmary doors. It’s stupid how angry he is. He’s angry at himself, which is a given because he’s the idiot that almost got Wash killed. But the stupid part is, Tucker’s angry at the helmet. He couldn’t leave it behind, Goddammit, he just couldn’t. Abandoning it at the bottom of the cliff felt like abandoning some small part of Washington. And the thought makes Tucker’s stomach churn. And that makes him angry at Wash.

Tucker picks up the helmet, a burning desire to throw it against the nearest wall rising in his chest. Instead, he grips the cold metal so hard his hands shake, and drops his forehead to the yellow stripe.

Tucker can’t bring himself to leave a bit of armor. Meanwhile, Wash sacrifices himself to save him and Caboose. Dying for your friends, it's heroic, sure.

But to Tucker, it sure feels a lot like getting left behind.

“You can’t leave,” he whispers to the cold metal. “You can’t. You’re not allowed. So, please.

“Please, don’t go.”

**Author's Note:**

> This fic can be alternatively titled, "Author reaching for new ways to get hurt on missions so let's throw Wash off a cliff and see what happens." I don't know what my problem is when it comes to messing with Wash, but it's not going away anytime soon.
> 
> I don't know why but this fic was so hard to write. It's seven pages long and I have another five of discarded material. But I'm happy with the results! Thanks for the prompt! It was tricky but a lot of fun.
> 
> Come say hi on tumblr at [wordsysayswords](https://wordsysayswords.tumblr.com)


End file.
